Over the holidays while in Italy I visited the Museo Nazionale at Palazzo Massimo in Rome—five floors of Roman art, from jewelry to statues, frescoes to busts. One bust, in particular, called to me as I walked through the galleries. It was Socrates, and he seemed to have something to tell me.
I remembered reading Socrates in my Intro to Philosophy class at SUNY Potsdam and being struck by his belief that learning happens through questioning, dialogue, and discovery, rather than by filling students’ heads with knowledge. He saw his role as helping ideas come into the world, not placing them there himself.
Recently, a young flute student of mine began twisting the crown of her flute during a lesson. Rather than stopping her immediately, I asked, “Do you know why it’s best not to twist it?” We talked about the cork hidden inside and how its precise placement affects sound and response. Her curiosity led us into a brief exploration of removing the cork from her flute—and she squealed with delight.
From the outside, it may have looked like wasted time. We hadn’t played for a few minutes. We hadn’t checked off boxes. Instead, the student learned something essential: why her instrument works the way it does, and that her questions were welcome.
This is where the tension lives—and it’s wonderful.
Discovery-based learning can seem inefficient. It can feel meandering. It doesn’t always move in straight lines, and it doesn’t always announce outcomes right away.
There is profound value in slowing down, in asking instead of telling, in allowing a student to arrive at understanding through their own noticing and experimentation. This approach drives much of what I do in my work as a performer and teacher.
What would change if we allowed a little more space in our playing and teaching—not for answers, but for inquiry? Not for efficiency, but for understanding that grows from within?
Thanks, Socrates, for the gentle reminder.
